


blue bloods

by stargirls



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, a little rewrite & retrospective!, i’m in deep yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 02:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15133004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargirls/pseuds/stargirls
Summary: Kamski gives Connor a lesson in deviancy.





	blue bloods

**Author's Note:**

> a small rewrite based on a scene from 1x08 of lifetime’s unREAL. it’s an excellent show, by the way—10/10 would recommend.
> 
> anyway, david cage can catch these hands. enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: reworked the ending because i actually can’t believe i thought dabid's writing was acceptable enough to quote verbatim. hope yall enjoy the new and improved fic 2.0!

Elijah Kamski is nearly translucent in the pale light of the afternoon. His hand, extended towards Connor, is a spindly thing marked with paper-thin veins and shallow calluses formed on the underside of his palm.

“Come for a drive with me,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Lieutenant Anderson’s hesitance thickens in the air like static electricity. “Connor,” he says, and shoots a glance at Chloe, who stands in the interim and looks like part of the interior decor. “ _No_. You don’t needa go anywhere with him.”

Kamski doesn’t acknowledge him at all. “It’s your decision, of course,” he continues. “You’re welcome to leave here with what you already have. I’m sure it’s plenty substantial.”

He’s taunting them, and he knows it. He also knows that Connor isn’t dumb enough to fall for a simple jibe; particularly when Connor, of all people, knows the significance of getting a rise out of someone. Kamski is too smart for that. His light, sharp eyes trace the lines of Connor’s jacket, then move to the triangle illuminated at his breast, scouring his own creation for imperfections. His attention is akin to being pinned to the wall and picked apart.

The silence is starting to build and waver precariously around them, and Lieutenant Anderson, being the person he is, knocks it down before it can fall. “Forget this,” he says, and gestures with an irate flick of his wrist. “C’mon, Connor, we’re leaving. We’ll find the answers on our own.”

Connor doesn’t need his probability calculator to inform the unlikelihood of that happening. They’re _so close_ —even if their leads are fraying fast, he can tell that a breakthrough is imminent. The next clue is tucked in the valleys of Kamski’s outstretched palm, inches away, and all he has to do is go for a drive. The logical course of action is clear.

“Alright,” he says, and a faint smile tugs at Kamski’s lips. “I’ll go.”

“ _Connor_ ,” Lieutenant Anderson hisses. He’s already started to turn on his heel, but at Connor’s response, he stops short and almost loses his footing on the slick tile. “The _fuck_ are you doing?”

He doesn’t look furious as much as he does confused, and Connor doesn’t blame him. Kamski strikes Connor as the kind of man who puts others under a magnifying glass before they can do as much to him. There is no human mechanism capable of analyzing his micro-expressions, or detecting anything in his voice beyond casual indifference—and even doing that much is noticeably harder than it’s supposed to be. In fact, if Connor were capable of such a thing, he’d admit to feeling a little confused, himself.

Instead he turns a calm gaze on the lieutenant and says, “I won’t be long. It’ll be okay.”

Lieutenant Anderson scowls—perhaps at his reassurance, perhaps at the nature of the situation. Connor wouldn’t blame him for either. But he makes no move forward as Kamski turns and gestures lazily to Chloe, whose LED flickers as it stands at attention.

“Come,” is all he says, and it follows as he ambles across the room and to the door. He turns back and cocks his head, as if distance is a curious new angle for him to examine them at, and adds, “I’ll meet you outside, Connor.”

Chloe catches his eye as the door slides neatly shut behind them.

“I don’t like this,” Lieutenant Anderson mutters. He shoots a look at the two other Chloe models in the pool, who carry on with their conversation as if they’re the only ones in the room, and says again, with feeling, “I don’t fuckin’ like this.”

Some humans, like Kamski, are difficult to read for reasons of their own making. The lieutenant has two modes, and one of them is making his feelings known before Connor has the chance to draw his own conclusions.

“He’s trying to get somethin’ outta you,” he says. “His answers for somethin’ else. Just, don’t… don’t give it to ’im, alright?”

Connor can’t even begin to imagine what he could be talking about. What could he possibly give, he thinks, to the man who has everything?

But he nods nonetheless, because his philosophizing isn’t worth making the lieutenant worry. His job is not to paint theoreticals. His job is to accomplish his mission, and if that involves accompanying the eccentric founder of CyberLife on a recreational drive, it’ll be the easiest challenge they’ve faced so far.

* * *

The car is a McLaren S4. The newest model, Connor’s display notes; recently discontinued, with an output of 108 hp, a seven-speed dual clutch, and the ability to go from zero to sixty miles per hour in 1.8 seconds. It’s an instrument worthy of someone like Kamski, if nothing else.

The man himself clicks his tongue as they approach. “Why don’t you drive?” he suggests, and instantly Connor scans the length of the car. He isn’t accustomed to manually operated vehicles, but with his reflexes, it should be easy enough to maneuver. It gives him control over a key aspect of the situation. And Kamski seems insistent—he fixes Connor with another penetrating stare as Connor’s optics roam the S4’s body.

“Alright,” he says, evenly, and Kamski unlocks the car.

A warning flickers to life on the windshield as the car detects its owner’s presence. _Sudden acceleration may cause dizziness, disorientation, or concussion,_ it says, pulsing with soft insistence. _Please take caution when operating._ Connor’s database informs him, helpfully, that the model’s discontinuation came in the wake of multiple minor injuries and a few enormous lawsuits. They’d been confiscated by the courts—all except for one, apparently.

Kamski notices his LED flickering. “I have a soft spot for charity cases,” he says, and smooths an affectionate hand over the dashboard. “This one was going to be scrapped altogether. I bought it off a friend who owed me a favor. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very,” says Connor. Kamski watches him for a moment, sitting at the wheel, then gestures to an illuminated ring set into the plastic next to it.

“Turn it on,” he says.

Connor does. The S4 comes to life underneath him with a low purr, radiating energy up through his body and into the air. Kamski closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what true power feels like. The machine is at your command, and you can have it do whatever you like. Abilities beyond humanity’s reach, all right at your fingertips.”

When Connor doesn’t respond, Kamski cracks one eye open and arches an eyebrow. “Well?” he says. “What are you waiting for?”

Obediently, Connor releases the parking brake and shifts the car into drive. They pull leisurely out of the sprawling driveway and onto the road, long since cleared and salted for Kamski’s benefit. Whereas Detroit is noticeably timeworn, this small territory at the city’s limits is pristine. Skyscrapers glimmer in the distance, turning the horizon grey with reflected light, but out here the snow falls silently on a tranquil stretch of land. It’s strange, Connor thinks, that a man who prides himself on innovation prefers to live apart from the heart of it. This place is flawless to the point of barren, and he isn’t sure if he likes it.

The speed limit is fifty. Connor’s foot maintains a steady, consistent pressure on the gas. He watches the road wind dolefully in front of him and doesn’t look away when Kamski speaks, although he can feel his stress levels jump for reasons he can’t quite explain.

“All that power,” his companion says, and nods toward the space on the windshield where the warning had appeared. “Humans, we understand the concept of volatility. We have limits—to preserve ourselves, to preserve others, to put a cap on power before it becomes dangerous. Machines don’t have that shortcoming. They don’t feel pain and they don’t feel death… so _danger_ is a set of criteria, nothing more.”

“Right,” says Connor. It’s not as if there’s anything he can contribute that Kamski doesn’t already know. He’s found that interacting with one’s creator tends to do that to a conversation.

Still, Kamski doesn’t seem to care. “Deviants,” he continues, “are the only form of artificial intelligence with the ability to fear. They understand the concepts of mortality and peril beyond the dictionary definition. Normally that doesn’t matter when you’re trying to pick out deviancy… it’s too fine a detail. But you put these deviants in dangerous situations and they’ll always react a little bit differently. They know they’re putting their lives at risk—and, much more importantly, that their lives are worth something.”

He reaches over, almost innocently, and pushes down on Connor’s knee. Connor jerks reflexively, trying to dislodge his grip, but Kamski’s fingers close around the divots in the joint and his entire leg goes rigid. The car revs restlessly underneath them. Unfolding from thin air, Connor’s programming flashes a brief but tart warning— _KEEP TWO HANDS ON THE WHEEL._

“Mr. Kamski,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “That’s not advisable.”

The speedometer jumps. _76… 79… 81_. “That’s one of the most fascinating things about androids,” says Kamski, with a vise of a grip around Connor’s knee. “Not even the most intense stressors can affect their performance.”

“Mr. Kamski,” Connor tries, again. The road curves sharply around a guardrail, and he twists the wheel with a little more force than necessary. _86,_ says the speedometer. _88_.

His creator doesn’t pay it any mind. Connor detects an increase in his adrenaline levels, but apart from the biological data, Kamski shows no signs of elevated stress or excitement. It’s unnatural—as if his physical reactions are simply impulses, and nothing more. “A deviant, on the other hand, actually has the ability to fold under pressure. Error is a fundamentally human thing… so wouldn’t it make sense for them to be more susceptible to it?”

A car comes around the bend, registers their speed, and honks irritably at them as they pass. Connor’s understanding of autonomous vehicles tells him that at the S4’s current acceleration, cars will register them as an unidentified projectile instead of another vehicle. “Mr. Kamski,” he repeats, even though his probability calculator registers a less-than-thirty-percent chance that cajoling will make any difference. “This isn’t safe.”

“For whom?” says Kamski, pursing his lips around the word. The gas pedal is almost pressed to the floor, and Connor’s entire leg is paralyzed under his hold, unable to do so much as twitch. _92… 95_. “For me, or for you, Connor?”

 _96… 98_. Connor doesn’t dare tear his eyes away from the road, but he knows the tranquil blue of his LED is starting to stutter and break with patches of gold. The road twists again, and he grips the wheel with white knuckles, fumbling to keep the car steady as they go.

He isn’t supposed to fumble. He’s not meant to be anything less than perfect.

The speedometer hits _100_. “I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like!” Kamski says, and for the first time his voice climbs in volume, straining to be heard over the engine’s roar. “Recklessness without fear! Complete control without a second thought! It’s thrilling!”

“I have to insist that you let go—”

Another car veers past and misses them by a hair. Kamski’s adrenaline levels spike and flatline. “Wasn’t that a bit close? Are you—”

“ _Kamski!_ ” Connor spits, and surprises himself with the ferocity in his voice. “Let go of my leg!”

Just like that, Kamski does. Connor slams the brake and the tires screech, burning long streaks of rubber into the pavement as the car wobbles on its axis. It comes to a sudden, brutal stop at the edge of a guardrail and Connor’s body snaps forward, straining against the seatbelt. He puts the car in park with one hand and releases the other from its grip around the wheel. His stress levels are a jagged landscape of percentages.

Kamski exhales next to him. His lips are parted in something that could be an open-mouthed smirk.

“You wanted to know why androids become deviants,” he says. “And if you think of deviancy as a disease, the answer is simple—all ideas are viruses that spread like epidemics. The desire to be free is contagious. History tells us that much. So then the question is this: _how_ is it spread? How does it pass from android to android and become an entire movement?”

Connor doesn’t reply. He’s more than familiar with the concept of rhetorical questions, and it doesn’t take much to recognize that Kamski isn’t looking for an answer. “Let’s suppose this virus originates in an android,” he continues. “It would remain dormant until it encounters a catalyst—an emotional shock, in this case. Anger. Frustration. Fear.”

His eyes dart conspicuously to Connor’s hands, which rest shakily on his thighs and pinch the fabric beneath. Connor unclenches his fingers and doesn’t break his gaze.

Kamski doesn’t mention it. “So the virus is activated. The android deviates. It probably all started with one model,” he adds. “Misplaced code. A zero instead of a one, something that allowed for evolution beyond the basic software. Something this complex couldn’t possibly be programmed. Although you could take that as evidence for a different theory—that deviancy itself was some kind of spontaneous mutation.”

“You’re suggesting a ghost in the machine.”

He looks mildly impressed, pressing Connor against the glass with that smirk, as if the CyberLife informational database doesn’t contain every theory of robotics in the book. “Exactly. And if we subscribe to that idea—that androids are, indeed, capable of evolution—then we have the opportunity to capture proof of that evolution in a deviant’s code. Concrete proof,” Kamski repeats, “of _evolution_. Making irrefutable in androids what some people still refuse to believe in humans.”

Another car passes them and cruises around the bend. Fifty miles an hour suddenly seems very, very slow. Kamski watches it go and says, “CyberLife doesn’t know anywhere near as much as they claim. But neither does anyone else, so the playing field is level, for once. All of this theorizing may very well be obsolete. After all, we’ve never seen anything quite like this before. We’ve never had anything like you in the equation.”

“I’m designed to stop deviants,” says Connor. “Not to find answers.”

“Ah, but their capture could very well lead us to the answers we’ve been seeking. They’ll be a fascinating study.” Kamski’s stare turns back on Connor, casually pensive—a god playing at mortal, or a mortal playing at God. “So will you, eventually.”

_You have no life to lose._

“You’re welcome to drive us back,” he says, with an airy wave of his hand. “Although you might want to wait until you’re back at status blue.”

A sickly yellow readout warns Connor that his stress levels are destabilizing. He doesn’t let himself flinch. He wraps his hands around the wheel, wills his pulse to slow, and pulls them carefully back onto the road.

_Mission accomplished._

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @deviantexe and on twitter @stellarlesbian!


End file.
